


Wishful Thinking

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types, Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But then I realized that it took place during the bed scene in the movie, Confessions, Holding Hands, Kissing, M/M, Right after the Narrator gets wrecked in the car accident, So I originally wrote this with the kiss scene in mind, So the timeline is all hecked up??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "I close my eyes, and Tyler takes my hand. I feel Tyler's lips against the scar of his kiss." --Fight Club, pg. 167In which the Narrator makes a choice.





	

_He kissed my hand._

That's all I'm thinking when he gets up to leave, his footsteps heavy on the sodden floors.

_What are you gonna do about it?_

I don't know how to answer myself. I don't know what it is I even want anymore.

But I know that I need to yank him back and have him explain himself -- more than he has been, anyway.

To stop him leaving, to pull his retreating back just a little closer, and maybe because I'm stupid with pain and lack of sleep and something else, I say three words far too loud and far too fast and I see him stop.

I'm not quite sure what it is I've said until he asks. 

"What the fuck did you just say," and he mutters it quietly, like a prayer, and I know exactly what I've allowed my loose-lipped, stupid mouth to slip.

I don't quite know where to start when he whirls on me, and I half-expect him to drag me back to the car and crash it all over again. 

"I'm not sure you heard correctly," he says again, that same church-quiet voice.

I think we both heard just fine, I hear myself say. _What? Why the fuck am I--_

"Mmm," he hums, and though it's quiet I can somehow feel the base of it in my chest. Not for the first time, I wonder at how close we've become.

Stay, I try to whisper, but it comes out as a hoarse plea, and I manage to hate myself just a little bit more.

I can see his eyes glistening from the lights through the window. Those beads of light pierce through me, sting into my own until I feel another headache coming on.

"I'm not exactly a bedside manner kind of guy," he tries to quip, but it comes out so small that he sounds almost sad.

I told you what I want, I say, and I cannot believe my own audacity.

"I know," he says. "I know."

He slowly makes his way back over, and through the haze of pain, I still manage to hope that he doesn't leave after I inevitably fall asleep.

He sits down, his back leaning against the wall next to me, and for a moment neither one of us says anything. We just breathe, and his chest rises and falls in time with mine (or maybe that's just wishful thinking).

His hand is just lying there next to him, so I take the obvious move and sneak my fingers around his. He doesn't look at me, doesn't say a damn word, but I can feel his fingers twining with mine. It feels like an answer to the question I haven't asked yet.

I ask him anyway. 

You were going to leave, I say. For a while.

I can feel him tighten his hold on my hand, and I want nothing more than for him to bring it to his lips again.

If you do, I start, but the pain in my chest suddenly spikes and I can't breathe. He rubs circles onto the back of my hand until it passes, and it's far too gentle and far too good and I couldn't give more of a damn.

If you do, I say, I'll understand. I'll look for you, but I'll understand.

He makes a soft noise, a puff of air through his nose. 

"I'm not sure you get it," he says. His grip tightens again. "I'm not sure you will."

I don't care, I blurt, because me and my goddamn mouth, and he snorts again. Finally, finally, he turns to look at me, and we make eye contact through the dark.

"You will," he whispers, and his voice is too soft and too sad to be truly his.

When his lips find mine, it feels like another question. My other hand finds his shirt, and his other finds the back of my head, and we cradle one another like the world is ending (and maybe it is), and I hope (endlessly, that foolish emotion) that he won't be gone when I wake up.


End file.
